“I’m not surprised that Martin is ill,” Moishe says. “He looked a little pallid the other night.”

“I didn’t notice it.” LaPointe cannot think of anything to say to his friend. There is no reason why he should have to explain Marie-Louise to him. It’s none of his business. Still… “You’re sure you won’t have some coffee?”

Moishe protects his chest with the backs of his hands. “No, no. Thank you. I must get back to the shop.” He rises. “I’m a little behind in work. David is better at finding work than I am at doing it. See you tomorrow night then, Claude. Delighted to make your acquaintance, mademoiselle.” He shakes hands at the door and starts down the staircase.

Even before Moishe has reached the front door, Marie-Louise says, “He’s funny.”

“In what way funny?”

“I don’t know. He’s polite and nice. That little bow of his. And calling me mademoiselle. And he has a funny accent. Is he a friend of yours?”

LaPointe is looking out the window at Moishe descending the front stoop. “Yes, he’s a friend.”

“Too bad he has to work on Sundays.”

“He’s Jewish. Sunday is not his Sabbath. He never works on Saturdays.”

Marie-Louise comes to the window and looks down at Moishe, who is walking down the street. “He’s Jewish? Gee, he seemed very nice.”

LaPointe laughs. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I don’t know. From what the nuns used to say about Jews… You know, I don’t think I ever met a Jew in person before. Unless some of the men…” She shrugs and goes back to the gas fire, where she kneels and scrubs her hair with her fingers to dry it. The side closest to the fire dries quickly and springs back into its frizzy mop. “Let’s go somewhere,” she says, still scrubbing her hair.

“You bored?”

“Sure. Aren’t you?”

“No.”

“You ought to get a TV.”

“I don’t need one.”

“Look, I think I’ll go out, if you don’t want to.” She turns her head to dry the other side. “You want to screw before I go?” She continues scrubbing her hair.

She doesn’t notice that he is silent for several seconds before he says a definite “No.”

“Okay. I don’t blame you. You worked hard last night. You know, it was real good for me. I was…” She decides not to finish that.

“You were surprised?” he pursues.

“No, not exactly. Older men can be real good. They don’t usually blow off too quickly, you know what I mean?”

“Jesus Christ!”

She looks up at him, startled and bewildered. “What the hell’s wrong with you?”

“Nothing! Forget it.”

But her eyes are angry. “You know, I get sick and tired of it, the way you always get mad when I talk about… making love.” Her tone mocks the euphemism. “You know what’s wrong with you? You’re just pissed because someone else a fait sauter ma cerise before you could get at it! That’s what’s wrong with you!” She rises and limps strongly into the bedroom, where he can hear her getting dressed.

Twice she speaks to him from the other room. Once repeating what she thought was wrong with him, and once grumbling about anybody who didn’t even have a goddamned TV in his pad…

He answers neither time. He sits looking out over the park, where the sun is already paling as the skies become milky again with overcast.

When she comes back into the living room, she is wearing the long patchwork dress she bought yesterday. As she puts on her new coat, she asks coldly, “Well? Coming with me?”

“Do you have your key?” He is still looking out the window.

“What?”

“You’ll need your key to get back in. Do you have it?”

“Yes! I’ve got it!” She slams the door.

He watches her from the window, feeling angry with himself. What’s wrong with him? Why is he fooling around with a kid like this anyway, like a silly old fringalet? There’s only one thing to do; he’s got to find her a job and get her the hell out of his apartment.

Marie-Louise walks huffily down the street, not bothering to flex her knee to conceal the limp, because she knows he’s probably looking down at her and will feel sorry for her. She is angry about not getting her own way, but at the same time she is worried about spoiling a good thing. It’s dull and boring, that frumpy apartment, but it’s shelter. He lets her have money. He doesn’t ask much of her. Shouldn’t ruin a good thing until you’ve got something better. She recalls how the young Greek boy played the tripoteux with her under the table last night. Perhaps the old man noticed. Maybe that’s why he’s so irritable.

Anyway, she’ll let him stew about it for a while, then she’ll come back to the apartment. He’ll be glad enough to see her. They don’t get all the young stuff they want, these old guys.

Maybe she’ll walk over to the Greek restaurant. See if anyone’s around.

Beyond the window, evening has set in, fringing the layers of yeasty cloud. The morning’s sunlight was a trick after all, a joke.

The gas fire hisses, and he dozes. He remembers the watery sunlight in the park. It reminded him of Sunday mornings in the parlor of his grandparents’ farmhouse. Floating motes of dust trapped in slanting rays of sun. The smell of mustiness… and the heavy, sickening smell of flowers.

Grandpapa…

A bright winter day with sun streaming in the parlor window, and Grandpapa, thin and insubstantial in the box. All the children had to walk in a line past the coffin. The smell of flowers was thick, sweet. Claude LaPointe’s shirt was borrowed, and too small; the tight collar gagged him. The children had been told to take turns looking down into dead Grandpapa’s face. The little ones had to stand tiptoe to see over the edge of the coffin, but they did not dare to touch it for balance. You were supposed to kiss Grandpapa goodbye.

Claude didn’t want to. He couldn’t. He was afraid. But the grownups were in no mood for argument. There were already tensions and angers about who should get what from the farm, and everyone seemed to think that one uncle was grabbing more than his share. And who would take care of Grandmama?

Grandmama didn’t cry. She sat in the kitchen on a wooden chair and rocked back and forth. She wrapped her long thin arms around herself and rocked and rocked.

Claude told his mother in confidence that he was afraid he would be sick if he kissed dead Grandpapa.

“Go on now! What’s wrong with you? Don’t you love your Grandpapa?”

Love him? More than anybody. Claude used to daydream about Grandpapa taking him away from the streets to the farm. Grandpapa never knew about the daydreams; Claude was only one of the press of cousins who used to line up to mutter “Joyous Christmas, Grandpapa.”

“Stop it! Stop it right now!” Mother’s whisper was tense and angry. “Go kiss your grandfather.”

The smooth dusty face was almost white on the side touched by a beam of winter sun. And his cheeks had never been so rosy when he was alive. He smelled like Mother’s make-up. He used to smell like tobacco and leather and sweat. Claude closed his eyes tight and leaned over. He made a peck. He missed, but he pretended he had kissed Grandpapa. To avoid hearing the grownups’ tight, muttered arguments about furniture and photographs and Grandmama, he went into the summer kitchen with the other kids, who by turns were making shuddering faces and scrubbing their lips hard with the backs of their hands. Claude scrubbed his lips too, so everyone would think he had really kissed Grandpapa, but as he did it he knew he was being a traitor to the living Grandpapa, whom he had never kissed because they were both physically reticent types.

The fat cousin who used to fart under the covers whispered a joke about the make-up, and the girl cousins giggled. His face blank, Claude turned from the window and hit his cousin in the mouth with his fist. Although the cousin was two years older and bigger, he had no chance; Claude was bashing him with all the force of his rage, and fear, and shame, and loss.